last friday, I came close to actually thinking it was a good idea to kill myself. yay. check! don’t need to go through that a second time. probably will, but I don’t really feel any desire to feel that stupid again. after the thought, immediately I began telling myself everything I normally say when someone else—be they real or on tv—wants to kill themself. are you really that desperate? there’s always a way out. there’s always some reason to keep living. this is the most cowardly thing a person can do.
so then I thought it would be a good idea to jump anyway, wait a few seconds and see what it’s like, then swim to safety. the shore wasn’t far.
again. what the hell are you trying to prove? that you’re the martyr? everyone else should start paying better attention to your real needs? shut up. you don’t communicate, how are they supposed to know?

this is so fucking bullshitty I just can’t even.


hello I’m back what a surprise no REALLY yes I’m quite serious anyway that’s what I think how ’bout you?

So I decided to continue blogging. I’m removing all the categories, will only tag posts on a whim, I mean, I’m not looking for 30 million hits, just wanna put my stuff somewhere ya know.

Also, I think I can actually do this—since this has taken a hiatus of more than a year by now, most people have forgotten about this little bloggy thingy here anyway, and those that haven’t won’t be blabbing (I hope! David, you still there?)—I’m going anonymous. Suggestions for a pseudonym? No anchovies. The blog name’s staying, I mean, I’m paying for the domain, also it’s cool, but I really don’t feel like calling myself “the anchovist” or any kind of crap like that anymore.

Also I’m slimming down the design (and content with it). I mean, hellooo. It’s me, remember? Can’t start nuthin’ new without changing/OPTIMIZING its appearance first. Anyway. I’m guessing it’ll be mostly crappy nokia phone photos with stupid comments from now on. You have been warned. My work is done here. Toodeloo.



As in not quite happy, but everything’s-going-well-satisfied.

artsy fartsy – a.k.a. “what I’m up to” – part deux

Tada. That is all.

artsy fartsy – a.k.a. “what I’m up to” – part I

So I might have had a chance to blog recently, and I also might have had lots to post about recently, but the way it is with me and having no Internet at home for any length of time, I need to, ah, get re-acquainted with the whole thing every time.. from scratch. I think I can put it like that.

What’s more, I’ve been thinking a lot lately (I know, that really is news, eh.. not. But hold your horses:), and when I say think “a lot”, I mean a. LOT. I spend days at a time by myself, my thoughts go in every possible direction, and when so much happens in my mind it’s difficult for me to convey anything clearly via any means whatsoever, be it when talking personally, on the phone, on facebook chat (yes, it kind of is horrific), by texting, … all I can get across are fragments that prove themselves to be untrue only a couple of hours or minutes afterwards, when my spinning mind tells me otherwise.

That thing, there, with the yellow and brown stuff on it, is one of the big THINGS occupying me at the moment. The other is spring cleaning catching up on Art History practicing Mozart getting over a heartache what you’ll see in the next post.

(There is actually also another fail connected to above images, I’ll put that up soon… [post-March 21st, as that's when it happened] [I love using brackets])


(Don’t know what made that word appear there. Wasn’t me.)

almost nothing

that finds its way into my hands to serve a certain purpose leaves them unscathed. The next stop for things that do not leave my hands “unscathed” is the trash. I am truly sorry for those things, and I always hiss a prayer for them under my breath to ensure that their existence is ended in peace even though they were so cruelly and suddenly ripped from their being… being the thing they once were…

No. I look at them, think FUNNYHAHAIMSOSTUPID?!, chuckle, cackle and giggle softly or not-so-softly or loudly to myself, take a picture (or a gazillion, it depends) and go on with life. Geez, how else are you supposed to deal with these things if you are so magnificently prone to kaput-ing (and losing – but that, dearest reader, is another story. a boring one. you have stuff, you lose stuff. see?) stuff as I am? See.


Random non-existent word alert because I can’t think of a title.

That said, I can’t really think of content for this post either, except: Uni, alone, scared, alone, no Internet at home, alone, need to post on blog, feel I’ve totally lost the blog flow again, alone, creeped out, need to go home, need to eat, need to post.

(WTF, I know.)

There. Also: Carneval in Cologne was as above and below photos depict.

(not much (carneval)) (more booze and other wacky things)

I wore two garbage bags and messed up my hair and put on make up that I thought made me look sorta dead. Then my mom told me this look would be perfect for recitals. Well, I’ve always felt dead after recitals, but I never necessarily wanted to actually look dead throughout the whole thing. If you get my drift.

Oh, update, the fails of today:
-opened the door to a chimney sweeper and his handsome apprentice with sopping hair and clothed in a towel.
-knocked over an opened beer bottle in the fridge
-what was an opened ber bottle doing in my fridge
-have you noticed that every item in the list contains the word “opened” so far? Including this one. Fascinating.
-let my milk boil over
-bought toxic-smelling tobacco
-declared the smell of tobacco for “toxic”

good afternoon and happy easter

and have lots of fun in the sun with those paper bags on your heads.

(Quite fun, sticking two photos together that were taken in one day and have absolutely nothing to do with each other. Wild. Arrrr.)

always the violist


Where was I?

Sorry. Yes, I was never a loud person. Really. I am the quiet type. Quiet-er. Than most. Some. Sometimes quieter than I myself am other times. That makes sense.

[more be-eth prepared! a lot of charismatic text followeth after the jump] (So I was writing about being quiet and shy and sometimes not so quiet and shy when my computer just froze and took everything I was doing – I was doing a lot, all at once, I am capable of these things, yesican – down with it into the depths of never ever again retrievable frozen-ness, down there where everything you had on your mind and was about to splurt out when WHOOPS your mom called or the milk boiled over or your parakeet drowned itself in the bath it had let just a few moments before, which is actually utterly impossible and unthinkable, at least for me, as I do not own a parakeet and don’t want one either and what silly parakeet bathes in bathtubs anyway and then you realize for the 753rd time that this is once again one of those lessons life forces upon you, reminding you that it is really an extremely foolish thing to do, writing all this genius shit right in your browser when you KNOW the Internet is extremely slow at the moment and actually your computer is extremely unreliable in general and you realize this and think well goddamn it, why don’t you just go fuck yourself, Lenovo ThinkPad I only have because my dad gave it to me in exchange for a blog I was supposed to design and set up for him which I still have yet to finish aka start.

Man. And I thought I might be able to write all that stuff down again, from memory. And then the above happens. and I think, well, that is going to be a bit more difficult than I thought.)

SO I was always pretty shy and unsure of myself, which are two characteristics that complement one another very nicely, if not perfectly. Therefore I was also quiet. Quiet as… me. Not quiet as a mouse, because that is a phrase typical for some people, but as I refuse to be typically something, that is not the description I am using. Things may be typically me – just not the other way around, thank you very much. (I can just hear my brother telling me off, “will you get off your high horse, you are so arrogant sometimes.” why yes. but other times I am quite the opposite, so please just stfu.)

Until the eighth grade, when a Russian teacher, above all people, annoyed me so much she coaxed the will-be-obnoxious-to-persons-of-authority-if-I-get-the-feeling-they-adore-me-so-much-they-just-keep-demanding-more-and-more-of-me-ok-but-enough-is-enough-alright-yes-see-I-can-tell-you-what-I-think-or-what-I-don’t-think-but-want-to-say-anyway-justbecauseitskindafun-LOUDSHYESTHER. YESICAN. HEARTHAT.

She loved me. I used her. I was a mean little teacher’s pet.

So ever since then the LOUD Esther emerged ever so QUIETLY and sneakily, sometimes in downright surges of madness, other times in small bursts of joyous passion or just-for-fun aggression.

Then came the time I switched over to playing the viola, having played the violin for about eighteen months back in Toronto and starting again BECAUSE I NEEEEEEEEDED TO when I was twelve and in Germany. So I was playing the viola. And with time, it became clear how perfect the instrument was for me. Or how perfect I was for the instrument. I was growing into all the stereotypes that come with viola players. Or had I always been like that? Perhaps.

Meaning yes. It’s what all this gibberish has to do with the photo above.

The problem is, the characteristics one associates (via means of viola jokes) with violists are like cushions you can fall back into when you feel like too much is expected of you. You can say: well, too bad, I’m a violist. Fuck it. I am slow. I am … slow. In my mind, as I am in my movements and everything else you’re slow in when your mind is slow. It is, in fact, something that is expected of you as a violist. Sad? No!

Yes, I sometimes mistake my left hand for my bow hand. Oh, whoops, that’s the side you’re supposed to hold the thing on?
Sorry I’m late, I missed three buses, I’ll be ready in just a second. Wait, hold on, let me sort my music. Oh, oops, it just fell fell down, sorry, just carry on without me, will you?

Excuse me, where did you say we were starting from again?

Oh, my C string just slid down two octaves. Hold on while I fix it. Hm, this is proving rather tricky, would you mind helping me? Thanks, just… hold this and I’ll… Thanks.

Umm, yeah, where’s 4th position again? I’ll just play in first, do you mind? And what the heck is that black dot in my music?


But they can be great musicians. If they think they know what they’re doing. If they’ve accepted the fact that, yes, I am slow and awkward and not the brightest bulb around. What makes awesome violists awesome is the way they feel. They feel what the music is trying to say, and they can convey what they feel the music is trying to say.

Which can mean that they’re conveying something the music is not saying at all, not in the least bit. But that’s just my mind concluding something logical but irrelevant out of those statements.

Violists become great musicians not when they’re attempting to prove that not all violists are like …that (it’s what they usually fail the most miserably at, by the way), but when they embrace their slow, awkward being and simply let the world pass them by when they’re playing, because precisely in that moment the music is all that matters.

AND WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT MY DRAFT WAS SAVED AFTER ALL. Hallelujah, God save the Queen. I mean, Osama. BECAUSE: After he did his best to wreck the Internet he also managed to make my day.

Alright, so what did that all have to do with the chair? By the way, it’s not THE chair, it’s the photograph as visual material that spurred this whole essay thing on. It could have been a picture of a blank wall for all I know.

The thing is, I do have a certain very temperamental side that can creep out quite explosively when a situation arises and I’m comfortable with the people I let it out/in on. But my general, basic outward attitude is the slow, melancholy and tranquil state of mind that is so typical for violists. Seeing beauty everywhere and becoming absolutely giddy and high with ever-so-small-and mundane discoveries. Flat-out satisfied and blown away simultaneously. I’m a perfectionist through and through, but tiny imperfections can make me more than happy as well. How does that work? I don’t know, it’s one of the many mysteries of life, I guess.

So I look at a photo like the hallway above, and I see myself in everything it amounts up to. I can’t explain it, though there are certain criteria. For one: no people. Usually, it’s just one or more utterly mundane objects sitting around somewhere. The lighting plays a large role. It can’t be crammed shut with information, there needs to be some sort of focus, or none at all.

My main instinct though is: if I can imagine Messiaen’s eighth movement somewhere in the background, it’s a winner.